


That Blessed Arrangement

by surexit



Series: Here Be Dragons [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:08:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surexit/pseuds/surexit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad and Nate get married. Ray "helps".</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Blessed Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fandomfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfan/gifts).



> Written for fandomfan, as a prize for recording some awesome podfic in last year's Semper Hi Fi challenge on the [generation_kill](http://generation-kill.livejournal.com) community. This took a very long time to appear, thank you for waiting so patiently. ♥

It was not Brad’s idea to put Ray in charge of the planning. If Brad had had his way, Ray would have been kept locked up in a suite of rooms somewhere (with plenty of entertainment, Brad’s not a monster) until the wedding was about to start, and even then only allowed out with supervision. 

Unfortunately, it turned out that nobody else could see how epically awful the whole idea was.

“He’s got an artistic flair, darling. Remember the midsummer party he planned?” the queen said when Brad tried to talk to her on the archery range.

“He does get things done, though, doesn’t he?” the king said as they ate dinner.

“What are you saying about my brother?” Ray’s sister said suspiciously, when Brad tried to talk to her while they played chess.

“It can’t possibly be as bad as you think,” Nate said patiently, catching Brad’s wrist as he paced.

“Bradley of the Colberts, are you asking me to abandon my sacred wedding planning duty? In favour of someone who can’t possibly understand that live doves bursting out of pies is _in_ this year?” Ray said, when Brad finally cornered him. “I’ve been in correspondence with Princess Isabella – you know, over the mountains? – and she says that when she married Derek last year – the swineherd? You must have heard the story – they had _twenty-four_ of them in a pie. And Cedric, the duke who got married last year, he was at table last night, he was telling me about this _fantastic_ idea his fiancée had for sugar sculpture gifts for all the important guests. A little tricky to transport, I grant you, but I think we can work something out.”

Brad stared at Ray. Ray stubbornly refused to spontaneously drop dead.

“I know it’s a little bit early to broach this, Bradley, but I’d just like to suggest – just a really tentative suggestion, you understand – that you might consider wearing a dress. It’s just so much a part of the _spectacle_ , and it’s going to be difficult to plan a truly amazing wedding without _someone_ in a dress.”

Brad honestly couldn’t see any other option. He ran for it, Ray’s mocking laughter trailing him down the corridor.

***

Brad was grooming his horse when Ray waltzed into the stable. “Okay, Brad!” he said cheerfully. “We need to talk about music. Now, your mother suggested a palustrada for your first dance as a couple, but I don’t think the palace musicians quite have the lightness of touch necessary to pull that off – they’re good, obviously, but just not quite there, you know? On the other hand, I tracked down Nate and he said he’s very good at fiorals, but the problem there is that you’re so freakishly tall, and I’m just not sure -”

“Ray,” Brad said, gripping the currycomb so tightly that his knuckles were white. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Ray said. “Shall I go and talk to Nate about this? I’ve written up some pros and cons lists that I think _he’ll_ probably appreciate.”

He was gone before Brad could give him a better idea of what to do with his pros and cons lists.

***

“Brad,” Ray said softly from beside him. Brad almost choked on his wine – the last he’d been aware, Ray had been safely five places down the table, talking to Lady Herewin, and Brad had been next to Nate. Somehow, and for some unholy reason, they seemed to have switched places. Lady Herewin was laughing brightly at Brad’s fiancé, and Ray was looking at Brad in a way that combined solemnity with evil. “Brad,” he said again. “We need to talk about silverware. And also about table manners.”

“No,” Brad said, very very sure on this point. “We don’t.”

“So the problem is,” Ray went on, “that both of your families have heirloom sets of forks that should be used.”

“I don’t use forks,” Brad said, and defiantly picked up a piece of lamb with his fingers.

“You’re going to use forks at this wedding, Bradley,” Ray said cheerfully. “Lots of them. The idea I had is that we’ll use the Colbert dessert and fish forks and the Fick meat and carving forks. And it would probably be a good idea to have a whole new set made as well, a Fick-Colbert set.”

“Colbert-Fick,” Brad corrected, and then wished he hadn’t, because Ray really didn’t need any encouragement.

“Two new sets,” Ray said, amiably, and Brad put his head in his hands.

***

Ray reined his horse in alongside Brad’s, and beamed brightly at him. Brad, after a quick horrified glance, stared resolutely ahead at where the beaters were moving through the bracken.

“Brad,” Ray said, after a pregnant pause. “We need to talk about the vows. I hope you’ve been giving thought to yours.”

Brad was forced to break his silence with a, “Why on earth would I need to _think_ about them?”

“You’re not expecting to _just_ use the standard ones, are you? Oh, no no no, you’ll be writing your own as well. Nate’s already written his.”

Brad looked over at Nate, on the other side of Ray, sure that his terrible feeling of betrayal was emblazoned across his face. Nate shrugged sheepishly at him.

“They need to rhyme, of course,” Ray went on. “And use other general poetic techniques.”

“I’m writing _poetry_?” 

“It’s what lovers do, Brad.”

Miraculously, there was a shout from ahead as a deer burst out of the brown undergrowth, and Brad seized his chance to escape, blowing his hunting horn and urging his horse into a gallop. He didn’t look back.

***

Brad was enjoying a nice afternoon of quiet with the kingdom accounts when the voice he currently hated most in the world said, “Brad.” He looked up, and found Ray about an inch from his face, leaning in with a look of intense concentration. “Brad, we need to talk about your facial hair.”

“I’m absolutely sure we don’t.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I think a moustache would really work with what I’m going for theme-wise, sort of a softening of your grim visage, but in a manly way. Like love has changed you, but not too much, none of your subjects need to worry about getting overrun by barbarians or eaten by a dragon while you sing sad songs to the moon, something like that. Actually, maybe you could also grow a beard and we could clip it into the shape of a dragon – the barber I’m hiring for the ceremony can work _wonders_ , and it’s a lovely callback to when you met Nate.”

Brad made a strangled sound of protest.

“No, you’re right,” Ray said thoughtfully. “There’s just not enough time for something that ambitious, I wish we’d had this chat a week ago. Don’t worry, I’ll go back to the drawing board. See you later, Brad!” 

***

“… and then he told me that if I refused to wear a dress he was just going to have to make sure that my dress uniform didn’t clash with the planned colour scheme, and if it did he was going to have to design a new one. My _dress uniform_. The kingdom’s worn the same colours for four hundred years!” Brad drew a breath, aware that his voice has spiralled a little higher than usual, and tightened his fingers on the balcony balustrade until the wood creaked.

“Brad,” Nate said.

“What?” Brad said.

“Turn your head.”

Brad did, scowling, only to find his chin caught by gentle fingers and a soft kiss dropped on his lips. Nate pulled away and rested his forehead against Brad’s. Brad felt his muscles loosen just a little.

“It’ll be fine,” Nate said. “We’re getting married. And I don’t mind what Ray makes me wear to do it, I just want to do it.”

Brad struggled to hold on to the last vestiges of his fury, but they were draining away under Nate’s calm eyes. “Fine,” he said, finally, aware that his tone was far more affectionate than sulky. “But it’ll be a miracle if I don’t punch him in the face sometime in the next two days.”

“Then your best man will have a black eye, and you will never, ever hear the end of it.”

Brad sighed, rolled his eyes, and kissed Nate again.

***

“Brad,” Ray said at Brad’s elbow, very quietly. “Are you ready?” Brad looked away from the fascinating bit of door panelling he’d been inspecting and nodded stiffly. He was in his own dress uniform, he didn’t have a moustache, and he’d been reliably informed that there were no live doves involved anywhere in the wedding feast. Now he had nothing to distract him from the frozen feeling that was making his fingers clench and unclench convulsively, the conviction that beyond the door into the castle’s chapel was something that he could never, ever, undo once done, a weighty responsibility, something so precious and so easily ruined.

“Come on then,” Ray said, his eyes soft and kind. “There is no way that anything that happens will be as bad as you thought this wedding was going to be, is there? I didn’t even hire that troupe of dancing monkeys I was telling you about. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Brad glared at him, for the impertinence of implying that he, Bradley of the Colberts, that _he_ was worried by the mere business of _marriage_. And then he drew himself up, parade-straight, and opened the door.

**Author's Note:**

> So I discovered from Wikipedia that forks were considered an unmanly Continental affectation in England for a while, and that amused me. So yeah, Brad doesn't use forks. HE'S A WARRIOR.


End file.
